


Cayenne

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 01:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30030981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Glorfindel expertly handles a secret shopper.
Relationships: Erestor/Glorfindel (Tolkien)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 36





	Cayenne

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There’s something about _books_ that just don’t sit right with Glorfindel, though they’re far better than the digital counterpart that’s cropped up in recent decades. It’s good to feel the subtle texture of the paper under his blunt fingertips, but he just can’t help yearning for the days of uneven _parchment_ , of yellowing scrolls that were skillfully etched by hand, each and every letter lovingly crafted, left to dry in Arien’s bright rays and rolled up again for future generations: so _tactile_ , so artistic. Books only capture a small portion of that magic.

Cell phones capture none of it, and whenever Pippin tries to show Glorfindel some silly new-fangled comic on his tiny screen, Glorfindel forces a smile and laughs like he understands, but really, he _doesn’t_.

Maybe he’s just old. Incredibly, ridiculously old. It’s amazing that the infinitely young hobbits and dwarves and even Men that come into the shop treat him like a mortal of thirty-five. Yet they treat Mithrandir like a wizened old tree that can barely hear or walk, and he’s, technically, ageless. But perhaps that isn’t something Glorfindel’s mortal colleagues can fathom. It’s doubtful Pippin spares any of their customers a second thought outside the walls of the Rivendell Café. He laughs raucously over his screen again and nudges Glorfindel’s arm. Glorfindel humours the Halfling with a low chuckle but continues to read his own ancient tome. 

He’s nearly at the end of the fifth chapter—the one Tauriel professed to be absolutely heartbreaking but he’s found fairly standard for a historical tale—when Lindir flutters into the break room like a puppy accused of ripping up a couch. Granted, Lindir often has that air. He flitters right over to the couch Glorfindel’s sprawled across and fusses, “Glorfindel, I am sorry—I am so sorry, I know you still have another two minutes on break, but... but I think we have one of those secret shoppers, and I do not—Um, I do not think I—”

“Want me to handle it?” Pippin chirps, even though Lindir clearly wasn’t talking to him, and it earns him a look of sheer horror that he doesn’t seem to notice. Glorfindel can guess why—while Lindir’s clearly petrified of making a bad impression when the shop (and especially its owner) are so dear to him, Pippin would undoubtedly make a worse one; he’s been known to slip his own rum into his favourite customers’ cups, tells one too many bawdy jokes, and nibble at the snack bar like they were made for him.

Of course, Lindir’s too polite to say all of that, so Glorfindel watches him fluster for a few seconds before finally putting him out of his misery. “I suppose I can come back early.” Two minutes—one, now—wouldn’t have gotten him very far anyway. 

Lindir looks instantly relieved. Pippin shrugs, decides, “Your loss,” and return to his phone. Glorfindel sets his book on the coffee table and decides to leave it there—as much as some of his coworkers baffle him, they’re all decent folk, and he knows none of them would steal his things. (Especially books, which have, somehow, become even less valuable than scrolls.)

As soon as he’s standing, Lindir hurriedly smoothes out his apron before snatching both hands back, burning bright red, and mumbling, “Ah, sorry, it is just—”

“We would not want people to think Elrond employs people with wrinkled clothes,” Glorfindel teases, and Lindir somehow manages to flush even redder—it’s entirely too easy. 

With a comforting grin and a pat to his shoulder, Glorfindel steps around Lindir and heads to the front of house, pulling out an elastic on the way and bundling his hair atop his head in a tight ponytail. Originally, the employees with longer hair—or beards, in Gimli’s case—were supposed to wear nets, but Glorfindel broke the manager down on that one. He looks so much better with simple but tasteful updos, and it’s not as though anyone’s ever complained of finding long, blond hairs in their food. He’s picture-perfect as soon as he rounds the corner, and then he’s smiling on instinct, because he does generally like his job, all of his peers, and most of the customers. The register’s empty—clearly abandoned by a nervous Lindir—and Glorfindel heads straight there, parking behind the counter like the Vala of coffee. The customer—an elderly dwarven woman with tattoos all across her sun-kissed forehead—couldn’t possibly be the secret customer. Glorfindel can see the real culprit right over the top of her head.

Of course, there’s nothing _secret_ about Erestor. But he does have the sort of disposition that denotes _work_ everywhere he goes, so it’s not all that odd for Lindir to have assumed he’s conducting Official Business instead of just buying coffee like any regular person. 

As tempting as it is to skip right to that spectacularly attractive customer, Glorfindel pays the dwarf his full attention first, greeting, “Good afternoon. What can I get you today?”

“A vanilla,” the woman croaks, already fishing for change in her purse.

Glorfindel hovers over the register, ready to punch it in. When she doesn’t offer anything else, he prompts, “A vanilla...?”

“Right, a vanilla,” she grunts. 

Glorfindel blinks.

The woman slaps three loonies and a peseta on the counter. 

Of course this kind of nonsense would have to happen in front of Erestor. Glorfindel would find it charming if not for the audience. He dares glance over her head, and Erestor fixes him with a drilling stare that seems to say, _Go on, show me you can handle it._ A part of Glorfindel wonders if this was a setup. But then, Erestor couldn’t even conceive of such messiness. He’s too immaculate.

So is Lindir. Maybe he’s had this customer before and knew she would do this, and that’s why he fled rather than deal with it in front of Erestor. It suddenly makes sense why he hasn’t come back out to the floor.

Glorfindel tries, “Would you like a vanilla latte? Or we can put vanilla flavouring in straight coffee—”

“VA-NIL-LA,” the dwarf tells him, like he’s being deliberately obtuse. Fortunately for her, Glorfindel isn’t the type to take offense at such things. If anything, he appreciates the quirk. 

He says, “Vanilla, coming right up,” and takes one loonie and the peseta, pretending to type it into the register before sliding the other two loonies back to her for change. She accepts them without complaint. 

He shifts over to the station where Lindir or someone else should be to actually make the drinks. Then he pours plain vanilla syrup into a paper cup all the way to the top and returns to the counter to offer it.

She takes the cup, takes a sip, gives him a big, toothy grin, and mumbles, “What a nice young man,” before waddling off. She’ll probably never know that he could be her great-great-great-great-great grandfather and he can also make far better drinks. 

Erestor steps up, frowning thinly as he’s wont to do, and mysteriously says nothing of the former encounter. Glorfindel knows him well enough to see the clipboard in his head, furiously being scribbled across. There’s a good chance Glorfindel’s going to get a stern talking-to after his shift, but at least he’ll have fun enquiring what exactly Erestor would’ve done in the same situation. 

Even though this gorgeous creature is a _very_ different thing to him than the former customer, Glorfindel greets in the exact same way: “Good afternoon. What can I get you today?”

Erestor nods minutely as though to show approval. Then he’s reaching into the bag at his side—one that looks more like a fabric briefcase than anything else. He withdraws a metal cup from it and slides it across the counter—Glorfindel wouldn’t expect anything less. Most elves understand the environmental crisis and take those small steps to avoid needless waste. And Erestor in particular puts thought into everything he does; it’s one o the many things Glorfindel finds so fascinating about him. It also doesn’t hurt that he looks absolutely stunning in his dark blue structured jacket with his long black hair elegantly braided behind his pointed ears, his sharp features sculpted to perfection. He demands, “A sixteen ounce almond latte with cinnamon and a single shot of decaf.” And then he adds almost casually, “How are you, by the way? The shop seems to have a pleasant atmosphere today. I trust you would say the same of your work environment.”

It’s such an _odd_ thing to say, and because _Erestor puts thought into everything he does_ , Glorfindel knows it’s more than that. Lindir was right, then. Erestor is conducting not-so-subtle espionage. 

Glorfindel takes care calculating the correct price first, knowing he’ll be executed if he fails that. Then he plasters on his widest, most charming grin, and answers, “Why, it is a lovely place to work. I have excellent coworkers, and, if I do say so myself, I might be the best of all of them.”

Erestor’s frown deepens, one arched brow rising. “Oh, you are, are you?”

“Yes. I believe I am _quite_ popular with the customers, I have a reputation for producing the most consistently delicious concoctions and, to top it all off, management adores me.” 

“They do?” Erestor’s steady gaze has become absolutely piercing, but Glorfindel’s decided he’s going to have fun with this impromptu test and stands his ground. “I do hope you do not say such things to all your customers.”

“What, that management is so very fond of me? Why, there is no need. I happen to be universally loved regardless.” The wonderful part is that it’s not even a lie. Glorfindel genuinely gets along with _everyone._ The shared tip jar is even noticeably heavier on days when he’s working, and he’s all the more loved for agreeing to share those tips equally. 

Erestor glances over his shoulder, but the line’s ended at him. More will come in, of course—they always do. But for the time being, the occupied tables are just far enough away that Erestor doesn’t have to lower his voice too much when he says, “I have heard some complaints.”

“Impossible,” Glorfindel insists. “I am the number one employee, and all the others still worship me.” 

“Is that so.”

“Absolutely.”

The little bell above the door rings, but Glorfindel pays no mind to whether anyone’s come or gone: his entire world narrows down to this one elf, as it so often does. There’s nothing quite like the thrill of seeing Erestor’s handsome face twitch with affectionate distaste. “Then why did I pass two baristas outside gossiping about you?”

Glorfindel doesn’t pause in the slightest. Tauriel and Merry have been working on the flowerboxes during the slower hours; Elrond wants their patio in tip-top shape for the upcoming spring. While neither has Sam’s green thumb, they’re both quite congenial and are probably having a good time talking and beautifying Rivendell’s outside seating area. Glorfindel confidently answers, “I am quite sure they were saying only flattering things.”

“Actually, they were implying that you slept with the manager, which, of course, is an _incredibly_ inappropriate thing for others to know about.”

The knives behind Erestor’s eyes have become dangerously sharp. Glorfindel doesn’t dare suggest that the inappropriate part is the relationship itself, not others learning of it. But then, he doesn’t feel guilty for that. Maybe the only inappropriate part is Tauriel and Merry talking about it where others can hear. Or maybe it’s all fine and Erestor’s just being uptight. It might’ve been a scandal several ages ago, but nowadays, everybody seems to sleep with everybody, and it’s not as though Glorfindel’s actually doing that like the blond bombshell who owns the winery next door.

Weighing that out in his mind and staring into Erestor’s handsome face, Glorfindel decides to take a risk—to have even more _fun_ , because he can never resist playing with someone so pretty. “It sounds as though you are accusing me of telling others of my indiscretions. Perhaps the manager is simply so loud that others cannot help but overhear.”

A crimson flush crosses Erestor’s high cheekbones, though he does an admiral job of keeping his voice level despite being obviously flustered. “I am sure he is not all that loud—”

“On the contrary, when I have made love to him in the stock room, he has often screamed my name so violently that I think the construction workers across the street can hear it.”

The blush grows darker, angrier, but somehow, it only enhances Erestor’s dangerous allure. He tightly grits out, “Then perhaps you should not be so rough with him.”

“How can I be otherwise, when he begs me so beautifully to take him harder?”

“You are old enough to know the difference between meaningless platitudes thrown out during the heat of things and an actual request—”

“You misunderstand; my manager is a very precise person. If he tells me he wishes to take me deeper and for me to thrust faster, then I can only assume he means—”

“Perhaps you should not be seducing your manager in the first place.”

“Perhaps my manager should not be so seductive himself and come in smelling of my favourite cologne with his sleeves rolled up and his lovely hair all—”

“You are a child. It is a wonder he deals with you.”

“I am also an excellent lover, as he has whimpered to me on more than one occasion—”

“ _You—_ ”

A throat clears behind them, and Erestor abruptly cuts off, swiveling to see the tall blond standing next in line, wearing a wicked smile that quells Glorfindel’s own. “As much as I am enjoying your lover’s spat,” Thranduil, an illustrious and regular customer, interrupts, “I have a wine tasting to attend shortly, and so I would like to receive my coffee sometime _today_.”

Erestor looks absolutely mortified and explosive and yet utterly stoic—it’s unlikely Thranduil or any of the other customers will notice. Glorfindel simply knows him too well to _not_ see the festival of emotions in his eyes. 

Glorfindel, equally as even on the outside, reiterates, “A sixteen ounce almond latte with cinnamon and a single shot of decaf, correct?” Then he types in the total as though it’s been paid, intending to add the balance after his shift. “Please, have it on the house, as penance for having to hear about my sordid affairs.”

Erestor opens his mouth, likely to protest, but Thranduil smoothly cuts in, “I assume you will be extending me the same courtesy, although I would have found your sordid affairs rather amusing had I more time on my hands, and perhaps enough to join in with my own exploits.” 

Before Glorfindel can stop himself, he’s blurted out, “Of course, Sir. Although I am afraid none of yours could possibly live up to that of my manager.”

Erestor closes his mouth, lets out a deep breath, and deliberately moves himself over to where the drinks are supposed to be delivered. Thranduil seems to understand exactly what’s happened and merely chuckles, “You will pay for that, I think. If you need a good bottle of wine to make your apology, you know the best in town, I am sure.”

“Of course. I regret I can only offer you coffee in return.”

He becomes abruptly aware of Erestor in his peripherals, _daring_ him to flirt with the attractive business owner in front of him. Glorfindel really wouldn’t dare.

He takes Thranduil’s order and, when Lindir timidly reappears, passes Thranduil’s drink on so he can lovingly craft Erestor’s. When he finally hands the finished product over, he half expects to be told, _“You’re fired.”_

But Erestor’s much too good a manager for that. He knows Glorfindel is irreplaceable. He takes a sip of his drink, visibly, begrudgingly calms down, and grunts, “I will see you at home.”

Glorfindel answers, “Love you,” and has fun watching his manager/husband walk away.


End file.
